Red Flags

White spots dot the edges of my vision. The world turns into a blur. It’s like the merry-go-round, except I’m standing still, my back against hot metal.

One second I’m choking for a sip of oxygen.

The next I’m slumped on the dirt.

I watch, sideways, as a man dressed in a black T-shirt and jeans punches Asshole #2 in the stomach. Once, twice. His name isn’t really Asshole #2, of course. It’s Randall Todd. He’s a pig and a bully, but in kindergarten, he brought his yellow metal dump truck to show and tell. He knew the names of all the parts—the oscillating hitch and the drive shaft.

That’s what I think about as I see him get his face smashed in.

He pukes, and the man turns to Kyle.

“We don’t want any trouble,” he says, equal parts scared and defiant.

“Then get the fuck out.”

Asshole #1 looks like he wants to argue, but Kyle slaps him on the back of his head. It’s enough to snap the fight out of him because he goes to lift their groaning friend.

The man doesn’t turn to watch them go. He speaks quietly, which is somehow more menacing. “If I see you on circus grounds again, we’re going to have a problem.”

Kyle sends me a dark look promising retribution.

Then he’s gone.

I stagger to my feet, waving away the stranger when he moves to support me. I don’t need anyone to support me. I look after myself.

Travis is in worse shape, anyway. He took a beating, and he looks half drunk on the adrenaline. He scrambles up, using the sleeve of his T-shirt to swipe at the white paint on his face. It only serves to spread it around.

The rainbow-colored wig has fallen to the ground a few feet away from the red nose. They were trying to make him into a clown. It makes my blood boil, not that Travis wants my sympathy.

His eyes are bloodshot from the strain of the fight, and maybe from the sting of the white paint, too.

“Vaseline,” the stranger says. “Lots of it.”

Travis gives him a scathing look. “Fuck off.” He looks at me next. “Both of you. I don’t need you to fucking babysit me. Next time you hear something, stay the fuck away.”

Then he’s vaulting over the chain link fence and landing hard on the other side. Up and running until he disappears from view. He probably won’t stop until he reaches home. A good ten miles away.

What the fuck was he doing at the circus anyway? Dumb question. Everyone came here.

Even this man, this stranger. No, he must work here. He sounded proprietary when he said, If I see you on circus grounds again, we’re going to have a problem. 

A rush of far-away screams heralds the high point in some unseen ride.

It fades away, leaving only the suggestion of bright music.

There’s a realization any woman would have—that I’m alone in a secluded place with a strange man. That he could try something. That I might end up fighting him.

Tension sweeps through my body.

By contrast, he looks relaxed as he bends to pick up the dust-covered wig and puffy red nose. He puts his back to me as he does.

It’s different than before.

With Kyle, it meant that he didn’t see him as a real threat. With me, it’s saying that he’s not a threat to me. This is a man who speaks volumes with every movement of his lean body.

That doesn’t mean I believe him.

Men lie with their bodies just as easily as with their mouths.

“Friends of yours?” he asks, opening a door on the trailer that I now see says, Props and Costumes. He tosses in the wig and nose, along with a large tube of white face paint.

“Something like that.”

Friends wouldn’t leave me in an alley with a strange man, but then we stopped being friends a long time ago.

Travis and Kyle and I were like the three musketeers. We swam and played and fought until it was way past our bedtimes, but we didn’t care. Neither did our parents.

Then I got breasts, and Travis got awkward.

Kyle got mean.

The man turns to face me, and for the first time, I get a good look at him. Green eyes that seem almost otherworldly. Emerald eyes. Bright jewels in a weather-roughened face. I don’t know whether it’s the adrenaline or the rush of the circus, but he looks like the most handsome man I’ve ever seen. Powerful. Fearless. It starts a low beat of anticipation in my belly.

“So, do you… work here?”

“The circus doesn’t run itself.”

There’s something strange in his voice. Almost as if he’s saying the circus does run itself. Even though of course it doesn’t. There were countless people I passed on the way in. Performers with stilts and fire. People selling tickets and concessions. The man who collected money in exchange for red plastic rings.

I saw them, but they looked more like circus fixtures. Part of the scenery rather than real people. Now as I study this man, with his left cheek dimpled and his brown hair blown from the breeze—it makes me wonder why someone would choose this life. Why wander around from abandoned farm to abandoned farm? From derelict city to the next?

What must he think about Kyle and his henchmen? About Travis?

About me?

It doesn’t matter. “What do you do here? Besides chase away assholes?”

“A little bit of everything. But chasing away the assholes is an important part." He shakes out his hand, which I can’t help but notice is large and strong. “His face was like a concrete slab.”

I brush the dust off my legs, feeling awkward. “Well, thanks, I guess. If it hurt your hand, I probably wouldn’t have gotten very far against him.”

He lifts one pale eyebrow, not mentioning that I was about two seconds from passing out when he found me. I wouldn’t even have gotten a punch in.

“What’s your name?”

He pauses, considering.

“Is it a state secret?”

His lips quirk. “Something like that,” he says, repeating my own words back to me. “I'm Logan. And you?”

I hesitate, as though my name is something precious. Even though it’s not. “I’m Sienna. And I should probably go find my friend before she loses her entire life’s savings to the ring toss. Unless the eviction notice applied to me as well.”

“Nope. Just them.”

“Speaking of the ring toss, is that white box with the new phone empty?”

“Of course.”

“Hah! I knew it.”

“We keep the real stuff locked up. The boxes get stolen, even though they’re high up and watched. I hate to be the one to disillusion what is so clearly an innocent mind, but there are unscrupulous people out there.”

“Doesn’t matter if you guys keep the prizes on hand. It’s not like anyone wins them.”

“Happens about once a week.”

“Really?”

Green eyes rake me in a slow, interested sweep. “You’re young to be skeptical.”

“They only call it skepticism when it’s wrong.”

“What do they call it when it’s right?”

“Fortune telling.”

He grins, and it’s like a sunbeam through dark, stormy clouds. Enough to make my heart miss a beat. “In that case, I wouldn’t mind showing you around the place. A little behind-the-scenes tour. Assuming your friend could do without you for a little longer.”

He’s handsome, which I find annoying. And he’s interested in me, which is a red flag all by itself. Men are only interested in me for one thing. It’s a lesson I learned early and often. “Is behind the scenes code for you taking me back to some bunk bed in a trailer? Because no.”

“No trailers. No beds. No enclosed spaces. Just a walk out in the open.”

I should say no, but I can’t deny the pull. It’s the same thing that drew everyone within a fifty-mile radius to the circus tonight. Something new. A breath of fresh air in the dusty sauna of small-town America. “For a little while.”

He nods his assent and starts walking. I have to put a little skip in my step to catch up. My throat still feels kind of raw from Asshole #2’s grip, but I appreciate Logan not making a big deal out of it. Knowing my skin it’s probably red if not already bruising blue. It’s a little mutual charade of normalcy in the strangest place on earth.

The last thing I want to do is sit with some ice pack around my throat.

Or worse, to go home.

There’s another tent back here, smaller than the huge one up front, but still pretty massive. The size of a grocery store. The walls on this one are pure white instead of striped with red. The blank canvas highlights the dust that’s been kicked up all around it.

I nod toward it. “Is that where the animals are kept?”

A quirk of his lips. “In a manner of speaking.”

“Elephants? Lions? Bears who wear tutus and balance freshly baked pies on their paws?”

“I can only imagine your perception of circus acts comes from 1950s black-and-white movies. We don’t have animals now. Activists ended that years ago.”

“You seem like someone who’d tell them to fuck right off.”

“Sometimes that isn’t enough. Especially when it comes to getting permits from city councils and mayors. Cash doesn’t always grease palms the way it used to.”

“Except in backward podunk nowhere.”

“Yes, except here.”

“So what happened to the lions and bears? Were they sent to be slaughtered?”

He makes a tsk sound. “So jaded for someone so young.”

“I’m a realist.”

“The circus owns a farm in Nebraska. Forty acres devoted to circus animal senior living. That’s where the last of them live out their days getting pampered.”

I grimace. “That sounds like something a parent tells a small child. Where did my old dog go? Oh, we just sent them to a farm so they could live out their days in paradise.”

"Believe what you like." He nods toward the tent. “It houses operations, mostly. They handle setup and tear down. And when we’re in the middle of the circus, they keep the machinery running smoothly. There’s also security and a small area for administration. Payroll and all that.”

Operations. That’s the kind of thing they have at the logging company. I never thought about operations when it comes to something as playful as a circus. “So you’re… What? Security?”

A faint smile. “I put out fires. That’s my job.”

“And I qualify as a fire?”

That earns me a long, dark look. He takes me in from the roots of my black hair to my feet in worn sandals, the purple nail polish on my toes long scraped off, leaving only the reminder in pop-art shards. “You qualify as a goddamn emergency.”

It comes out as a drawl, though from what part of the country I have no idea. There’s resignation in his tone. Interest, too. As though he’s given up resisting…for now. “Prepare to be disappointed. People usually are.”

“You seem like someone who’d tell them to fuck right off.”

The approval in his tone makes my cheeks heat. “It doesn’t always work.”

Though I’m not talking about city council permits or cash bribes.

My hand goes to my neck, which still feels hot from Asshole #2’s grip. And dirty. I need a shower, but I know that’s not going to make the feeling go away. “Sometimes I think I should leave and never come back.”

“Bullies are everywhere.”

“Put that on a motivational poster.”

“Why do you think people work in the circus? Always traveling. Never staying put. Bullies are in every city we visit, but we don't stick around. The circus is a safe haven for a lot of people.”

I glance at him, with the muscles pushing against the T-shirt and long legs. And his no-bullshit expression. There wasn’t any fear when he faced down three pissed-off guys. “You don’t seem like someone who’d need a safe haven.”

Another one of those faint smiles. They would seem almost mocking if it weren’t for the self-directed derision in his eyes, as if he’s admitting something personal with the slightest lift of his lips. “We all need to feel safe.”

“Bullshit.”

He stops walking and faces me. His voice goes soft. “Excuse me?”

“You say a lot of words that mean nothing. Bullies are everywhere. Everyone needs safety. Your job is to put out fires. You speak in generalities because they make you feel… What? Wise? Better than everyone? Like some kind of sideshow prophet?”

“Is that what you want me to do? Tell you your future?”

Now he’s pissing me off. He has as many red flags as the tents in this circus, with his vague words and his evasive answers and his frustrating, beautiful, charming smile. “No, I want you to tell me something real. Something specific.”

“Fine.” He runs a hand through dark hair, making it spill over his forehead. I didn’t realize it was held in check by so little, by the tilt of his head, by the lack of his frustration. “You want something real? Something specific? Well, specifically, it pisses me off that the circus can’t have animals when they got sirloin steaks for walking in a few circles and better health care than most people get. Now we have people working through injuries to feed their kids, and that’s supposed to be more fucking humane? Is that what you want to hear?”

“Yes,” I breathe, because it’s horrifying, all of it, but it’s real. And I crave something real.

He steps close—close enough that I can see a starburst scar on his left cheek and the gold striations in his green eyes.

Before he’d been like a marble statue of handsomeness, Photoshopped by the sun into the abstract. Now he’s close enough that I can see dark stubble, close enough that I can smell a faint masculine musk.

“Specifically,” he says, his voice lower now, “the dark peach of your lips makes me want to kiss you. Even though that should be the last thing on my mind after seeing those fuckers hurt you.”

Shock holds my feet to the earth. If some guy at the coffee shop threatened to kiss me I’d probably slap him. But I have no idea how to react when this man speaks to me this way. My mouth suddenly feels awake, as if it wants his lips.

I asked for something real. Something specific. He’s giving it to me.

“Specifically,” he says, touching a hand to my sternum—above my breasts, below my neck, a place both innocuous and impossibly intimate. “The bruises on your neck make me want to track down those assholes, beat them to shit, and drown them in a fucking swamp. I’m sure you have swamps around here somewhere, right? Most small towns do.”

Now my hand goes to my throat, not to feel the pain or the filth, but to shield myself. How the hell am I going to hide this at the coffee shop? I’m fucked.

“I don’t get involved with townies, so why the fuck am I even talking to you?”

He sounds pissed off, which ironically I like best of all. It’s the realest of real, because I don’t want to be talking to him either. He’s going to be gone… When? Tomorrow? In a few days? Next week? Maisie didn’t tell me how long the circus would stay, but it won’t be forever.

And then I’ll know what it felt like, to talk to someone interesting. I wouldn’t be able to do it again. Not ever. Not fucking ever.

“I don’t get involved with anyone,” I say. “So why the fuck am I talking to you?”

He leans down and kisses me. It’s a soft kiss, questioning, exploring. I answer without meaning to, stretching onto my toes to meet him. He groans, a soft rumble that makes electric arousal arc through me. The swipe of his tongue across my lips makes me gasp.

Someone rounds the corner.

Logan pulls back, letting hot air rush between us.

A man stands in sharp clothes that contrast with the dust surrounding us. His shirt is crisp white, his slacks black and tailored with a red velvet stripe down the sides. It’s a costume of some sort, but on him it looks more like a bespoke tuxedo.

Handsome features are dark with consternation. Black hair falls over his forehead in perfect disarray. Faint scruff on his jaw lends the slightest air of disrepute to his formality. Dark eyes take us in with a flare of interest. Just as quickly, I’m dismissed.

“It’s Alessandra,” he says.

I don’t know who Alessandra is, but her name charges the energy in the air.

Logan frowns. “Where?”

“Her tent.”

He looks at me, but I’m already backing away. “Time to lose money on the ring toss,” I say. “Or who knows, maybe I’ll be getting a brand new phone tonight.”

This is goodbye, come in a matter of seconds. Though he lingers, unwilling. Unable?

“Logan,” the man says with a sharp tone. He doesn’t like him lingering for me, though he can’t even know the gossip about me. He doesn’t know my heritage. It’s just the existence of me that this stranger finds offensive.

Logan gives him a sharp look of reprimand. Then a resigned nod.

“Sienna.” My name pulses with regret, longing, and finality.

Then he’s gone.

I should have listened to those red flags. Then I wouldn’t know what it feels like to have him kiss me. I wouldn’t be haunted by the memory, destined never to find it again.

The stranger doesn’t immediately trail after him.

Instead, he gives me a speculative look that takes me in from my messy dark hair to my paint-chipped toenails. “What’s your name, sweetheart?”

I snort. “You’re flirting with me? Really?”

“Admiring a pretty face. Nothing wrong with that.”

It isn't my face he wants. It's my body.

I throw a middle finger without looking back, walking down the dirt path toward the lights and the music, the screams and the laughter, pretending like I always do that I don’t give a fuck.